7. Violet
Chapter 7
Violet
“ Y ou’re coming with me tonight.”
“Obie, please. I just want to go home, sit on the porch, and listen to Taylor Swift,” I beg my best friend as we walk down the back hallway of the arena. I spent the game walking around the crowd with Ethan. We gathered photos and video clips for content while he explained the history of the team and pointed out players to me. I smiled politely at the information I already knew while fighting off the familiar melancholy that came with being around the game. It was difficult, but the feeling was less than before, and it reminded me that I’ve made the right decision.
Obie just finished the small amount of post-game press he was required to do, but I waited around to congratulate him on a great game. He scored his first goal in a Midnight jersey and helped block ten shots on Baladin in goal.
“Which album?” he asks, stopping to look down at me. I think he already knows the answer.
I sigh.
“Absolutely not,” he replies.
“But—”
“No. I’ve let you gracefully bow out of every other social gathering.” Obie loops his tie around his neck. If I had known my plans for a little self-reflection and pity were about to get hijacked by my well-intentioned best friend, I would have left at the final buzzer. “Violet, it’s time to be a little less Tortured Poets and a little more Reputation .”
“Which part?” I counter, knowing I’m not going to win this argument. Obie’s right. I’ve avoided every invitation from him to hang out. I haven’t even gone over to his new place.
“The ‘fuck the haters, I don’t need them’ part.” Obie cuffs his hand behind my neck before pulling me forward to kiss my forehead. “I’m here for you, but I don’t want to have to keep you separate from the team. You haven’t even been over to meet my roommate. I finally feel like I can fit in here. And having you as part of that is important to me. You’re my best friend. So, come out tonight. Pretend if you have to, but be there with me, yeah?”
“Ugh.” I wrap my arms around his waist, sinking against him. “Fine. That’s your freebie on the ‘best friend card.’”
“This month,” Obie amends, and we walk to the parking lot. He pulls his phone from his pocket, tapping a couple of times, and mine buzzes in my pocket. “I sent you the location we’re meeting at. Can I trust you’ll show up, or do you need to ride with me?”
“You’ll have to take me. I hitched a ride with Dad earlier.”
“Really? I didn’t think you wanted people to know your connection if you can help it. That's why I haven’t told anyone.” Obie pulls open my door when we get to his Land Rover. I hop into the seat as he rounds the car to the driver’s side.
“I had him drop me down the street. I walked in for my report time.” I buckle up and set the nav app to link directions through the car’s Bluetooth. “I think it’s more important that people in the front office don’t realize the connection. Outside of the people who know but legally can’t say anything, like HR,” I consider. “Anyway, with you playing on the team and insisting I hang out with you, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the guys know. But I want to get through a few weeks of work without the whispers. Have my efforts be judged for what they are and not who I am.”
“Makes sense.” Obie drives, waving at the lot guard. “Do you want to tell any of the guys tonight? They know you’re coming.”
I think about it. There’s a part of me that would love to keep my relationship with the team’s coach quiet. I’ve managed to keep a low profile in the hockey world outside of the immediate members of the team Dad played with and a few others he couldn’t avoid introducing me to. Otherwise, I rarely acknowledged the connection. It made me feel like I was treated differently, or I was only interesting to people because of who my dad is. It doesn’t help that being Callum Andrews’ daughter was the entire reason my last relationship fell apart, a mistake I’m not keen to repeat. But I’m not trying to date any of these guys, and they’re already on my dad’s team. There would be more harm in keeping it from new people than just being upfront about it. Then again…
“Who exactly did you tell them I am?” I’m smirking a little. There’s this idea teasing my conscience. Just one night of being unknown to the guys on the team. I haven’t even been introduced to them at work yet. Instead, I’ve been spending my days pulling backlogs of data to see where the department’s strengths and weaknesses are in content creation and management. It’s not exactly ethical to keep back my identity, but there’s something in the anonymity that clings to me like armor. It feels safe, even if I know it’s temporary.
“I’ve mentioned my best friend a few times. They know you’re a woman, something Gus finds particularly amusing.” Obie chances a look over at me as directions to turn left fill the cab. “Probably won’t take them long to put together something if they’ve seen you around the practice facility.”
“Let’s leave it alone tonight, all right?” I give Obie a real smile. It’s harmless fun. Not a real lie, just an omission. “If someone asks outright, I’ll answer, but it’s unlikely to come up. This isn’t an interview; it’s a celebration of your opening night win!”
“You sure?” The navigation chirps that we’ve arrived at our destination, and Obie looks for parking. He guides the car into an opening along the curb. He has a shit-eating grin on his face when he looks at me. “What if you end up liking one of them?”
“Never going to happen.” I pop open the door, shucking my leather bomber jacket off and leaving it on my seat. The early October night isn’t quite as cold as the arena was, and I’ll be inside. Obie comes around with a disbelieving lift to his brow. I link my arm through his as we make our way to the entrance. “I don’t date hockey players anymore.”
Obie shakes his head next to me and rolls his eyes. I slap a hand against his chest in retaliation to his judgment.
“If Reputation Taylor didn’t need a man to have a good time, I don’t either.”
“It’s Letty, right?”
I twist at the sound of my nickname coming from an unfamiliar voice. I have to tilt my head back to find the source. The guy is tall. He’s at least six inches taller than me, probably more. Over six feet, with a firm chest and broad shoulders. They curve slightly inward toward me, as though he’s trying to appear a little more approachable. Dark brown hair curls a little at the ends, not because it needs a trim but because it might actually have a curl pattern he knows how to control. His upturned eyes, the color indistinguishable in the club’s lighting, have a little glimmer in the corner, hinting at trouble. It matches the flirty yet kind smile he’s giving me.
I draw upon an attitude I don’t really have, cocking my head and lifting my chin at him. If he were anywhere close to my height, I’d level him with eye contact, but as he practically towers over me, it loses a little of its impact. His eyebrows wrinkle just a moment before he speaks, as if his confidence might be faltering before he gets it together.
“I’m Crosby.” He offers his hand. “You know my teammate, Obadiah, right?”
Crosby Wells doesn’t look anything like his brooding and serious roster photo. It’s surprising and welcoming, and it makes me want to play a little as he waits patiently for my response.
“My name is Violet. Obie calls me ‘Letty,’ and my other friends call me ‘Vi.’” I place a hand on my hip and pick up the beer Obie asked for with my other hand. I use it to point back and forth between us. “ We’re not friends.”
Crosby pulls his hand back, hooking it behind his neck for a moment before letting out a laugh. His high cheekbones darken a shade in the mixed lighting, and suddenly I’m glad I’m busting his balls a little more than necessary for an introduction. I need to make sure Crosby stays far away from me, and being prickly is a good way to do that.
He surprises me when he draws a breath and sets his half-finished beer behind me on the bar. It brings him a lot closer, even if he doesn’t lean over to face me directly. He smells like vanilla, sandalwood, and a hint of citrus. It’s unexpected, stealing away my thoughts of keeping space from him when I let the scent wash over me. His voice drops a little, low enough so I’m the only one who can hear.
“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend.”
There’s something sinfully inviting in the way he says it. The offer is clear but not rude. I like it. Probably more than I should.
A body bumps me from my opposite side, jarring me out of the moment with the splash of beer on the back of my hand. It helps bring back my resolve. I shake my hand, wiping it against the leg of my jeans.
“That really work for you?” I can’t quite keep the barest touch of venom out of my voice as I search Crosby’s kind but bewildered face. He seems surprised with himself. Or maybe by me. If I were a little more confident, a little less bruised, I would have found the line clever. Instead, it stings with memories of a different man, whispering promises to me he never really meant to keep. My defenses insist I shut him down as fast as I can. “I don’t date hockey players.”
Without a backward glance, I push off the bar and make for the table Obie’s at. It doesn’t take me more than a few steps to realize Crosby will be following me, as I spy the other players gathered with my best friend. Flutters still skitter up and down my spine at Crosby’s nearness and husky voice, and I push down the blush threatening to rise. Obie will take one look at me and know something is going on. I can find Crosby attractive without it meaning anything, right? I school my features as I slide up next to him.
“One draft.” I plunk the pint glass on the table in front of him. He smiles down at me before hooking his arm around my shoulders and pulling me against him in a brotherly manner. Crosby travels around to my other side, next to a guy with long, dark blonde hair. It grazes the tops of his shoulders, layered and shaggy, an intentional bedhead look. He knocks shoulders with Crosby before looking at me, smiling widely. It’s cocky and sexy, even with the right lateral incisor tooth missing.
Augustus Kelly. Defensemen. Obie’s other half on the ice and new roommate. His prolific love life tends to be the topic my coworkers focus on most days, but I’m more interested in his time on ice average in his career—it’s increased in his tenure with The Midnight—and how many sticking penalties he received last season—too many. Dad really needs to help him get that under control; it makes Kelly look incompetent, which he isn’t.
The only other occupant is a redhead on Obie’s other side. He’s a little shorter than the others, but with hockey players, it still makes him taller than me, and he’s built like a Viking: bulky in the shoulders and thick through his thighs. He has intense amber eyes and a somberness that’s equally mysterious and terrifying. Charlie Kane is the youngest player on the team, but there’s something about him that makes him look like the oldest. He gives an almost imperceptible nod at me.
“Everyone, this is Violet Cameron, my best friend,” Obie introduces me. He points around the table, starting with Charlie. “This is Bones, Gus, and Wellsy. Nicky had to get home, and Tex is around here somewhere.”
“Nice to meet all of you. Congratulations on the win tonight,” I offer. I make note of the nicknames assigned, committing them to memory. Crosby has moved a step toward me, a hand still in his pocket and a lazy smile on his face. I can see his mind turning over my declaration from the bar. It should have been a deterrent. I should be happy I put up the roadblock. So why do I feel my pulse flutter at his clear curiosity before he speaks?
“Obie mentioned you two grew up together and just moved back. Where were you before here?”
“I’ve been in London for the better part of three years. Before that, I was an undergraduate at Brown.” I untangle from Obie, who’s smiling proudly at me. I bump my shoulder against him while he lifts his pint glass.
“Do you like hockey?” Gus asks.
Obie sputters around his beer, doing a terrible job at stifling his laugh and launching into a coughing fit. If Crosby looked curious before, he looks downright invested now. He leans forward on his elbows. The table is a high top, hitting me just below my ribs. When Crosby settles, his face is almost level with mine. This close, I can finally make out the color of his eyes: they’re leaf green, bisected with sections of golden hazel. Heterochromia , my brain helpfully supplies as I struggle not to lose myself in them. I swallow thickly before cutting my eyes toward Gus. His mouth is curved up a little in the corner, playfully, as if he caught me.
“You could say that,” I offer. Obie finally wheezes a little as his coughing subsides. “I couldn’t really escape it in my house.” I see Crosby cock his head. I backtrack before I give too much away. “Being friends with this guy and all.”
“Then you know we’re a real superstitious bunch.” Gus looks over to Crosby, who gives a small shake of his head. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Bones offer me an apologetic shrug. A sinking feeling appears in my stomach. “Once something good happens, we take it as an omen. A requirement to uphold.”
“Yep. I think I read once that a player kept his daughter’s stuffed unicorn in his locker after she gave it to him during a playoff run,” I try to deflect, pulling up a memory of me and my dad. I’m not sure where Gus is taking this conversation.
“Right.” Gus slaps a hand on Crosby’s shoulder. “So you’ll understand why we like to make sure for a win, our lead scorer is treated well that night.”
I recoil. Obie draws himself to his full height, even against his teammate. Crosby looks like he’s going to level his friend with the fire blazing in his stare.
“Shit.” Gus sighs, swiping his hand across his face. “Just realized how that came out. Not at all what I meant. I was just kind of hoping you’d dance with my boy here, I swear.”
“That was painful,” Charlie says. My eyes widen. His voice is deep deep. Unexpected. It makes his chastisement of his teammate all the better and loosens me up a little. Obie even deflates from the protective stance he was in.
Silence descends over the group. I pick up Obie’s drink, taking a sip and scrunching my nose at the taste. Even on American soil, beer just isn’t my drink. I see Charlie turn Gus away from the table, their heads bowed together for a conversation. Obie leans over to join in, leaving me to awkwardly look around the club.
“You don’t have to.” It’s Crosby who breaks the last threads of lingering tension. He sounds sincere and is leaning a little further into my space. The hints of vanilla tingle in my nose. “I’d love it, but it’s your choice.”
I shouldn’t. I’m learning from my past mistakes, starting over. Moving on.
“I’d really like to dance with you, Violet,” Crosby whispers into my ear, his breath ghosting across my skin. I chance a look at Obie. He’s still talking to Gus and Charlie but gives me a little wink of reassurance. Or maybe he’s gloating already.
I turn back to Crosby. He’s got a sweet, boyish charm with his hands in his pockets and a free curl sitting off-center on his forehead.
He’s not Olivier, I remind myself. Not all hockey players are the same.
“Just one dance, Wells,” I announce. A blinding smile splits Crosby’s face.
Shit.
I forgot Reputation Taylor fell in love while making that album.
What an unhelpful bitch.